bring a burning candle with you
by SolarRose29
Summary: The stranger in the bathroom mirror tells Steve's he's lost everything. But no. That's not fair. That's not fair to the half still left. (or is it left behind?) *Endgame spoilers*


There isn't much blood. Space metal. Or space alien skin. Or maybe the damage Thanos did to himself wasn't just external. The head rolls, thuds, drops and knocks to a stop across the cabin. Lands on a strange woven rug, homey and comfortable and not what Steve was expecting. Thor leaves after. Heavy boots in long waving grass under bright yellow sunshine. The others sort of drift off, drift out, drift away. Nebula, alien like Thanos but ally to Tony, kneels. All Steve can see is the angular tilt of her back as she bends over the severed head. Steve looks away, eyes catching on the concrete nub of thoracic vertebra that's visible, sandwiched between skin and muscle. It's hard to comprehend the source of his pain as a lump of slowly cooling flesh.

A pot, of all things. A pot of some strange, earthy smelling plant is bubbling over the fire. Little spikes of liquid pop, hitting the flames with a sibilant hiss. There are more important things in this hut than a dead man's dinner. He knows that. He knows. But for a moment, all he can focus on is the boiling soup.

Natasha's hand on his arm. He doesn't need to look to know. She feels different. Different than anyone.

The others are in a lopsided semi-circle, misshapen and unbalanced, outside in the grass. All except Thor. Thor's already on the ship, seated with hands kneading one another, scowl chiseled deeper into his face than before. When the raccoon starts the engine, tilts the ship up and off and away, the jolt doesn't bother Steve much. His does stomach fold over, curls tight and falls without a parachute. Though it might be due to inertia, he wonders if it's not despondency.

Colors and the winding arms of galaxies and passing stars already dying, viewed through glass. He stares ahead, feels a tingle in his fingers, like he's dipping the tips into a creek flowing weakly against ice blocks choking the source. There's not much to say and no one says it. It's warm. Uncomfortably so in the ship. Flushed cheeks all around, in spite of the blanch of defeat. (Again.) It's warm and silent, strangely lit from the outside. A womb. Like being cocooned in a woman's womb, all whoosh of fluid and gurgle of digestion and the play of light and shadow beyond the placenta.

Hours or days, couldn't be days, don't let it be days, would it even matter if it was days? there's no one counting or waiting for their arrival. The return to Earth. Devastated lonely Earth not alone in suffering but so so isolated and suspended weightless without anchor or reason or hope of recovery.

Scorch marks along the gravel because engines and heat and the ship touches down. Breaks the seal, spills the occupants, marbles from a bag skittering across a sidewalk. They scatter.

Like dirt. Like ashes. Like dust.

He claws at the buckle and throws off the restraints because he's taken too long, the sad beauty of distant planets staying too long in his eyes, beautiful and blinding and he stumbles, foot catching on the metal anchor of another seat. Regains balance and equilibrium and tries to get his head on straight. To blink the dying stars from his eyes because the others are all shapes moving away. Soon, they'll be gone, swallowed by the night that came while they were away and he won't be able to find them again, icy fingers dripping water while he reaches and digs through cold.

Words like burs catch in his windpipe, hook with teeth in deep and they won't come out. He can't pull them out, these names that taste like oxidized copper taste like red wine and mean too much so much and more than he ever thought they could but that's what happens when you lose. When the loss sticks in your lungs, coal black and tar thick. The others-they're slipping. He feels them. Gliding like loose threads across his palms. His fingers too numb to form fists and hold on, hold for all he's worth, hold with whatever is left in his bones picked clean by vultures.

So this is the after life.

Birds beyond the window and empty couches gathering dust. Long phone calls and longer nights and longer still spent in front of the bathroom mirror holding silent conversations with a man you don't recognize as yourself.

He makes bacon. Of all things, bacon. Too dark and too crispy and no one has an appetite. Shame, because there are piles of toast. Cold now, in the air conditioning. Stacks of pancakes that resemble a famous leaning tower Steve's never been to see. They tilt and sink and just sort of deflate because the insides aren't as firm as they appear. Rushed too soon from the pan whenever the first hints of honey brown started showing. Time and bowls and milk and eggs, the dishes renting counter space by the sink. It's so much mess with such little result. Awkward glances and awkward silence and awkward sips of bitter coffee in white mugs. The muted slide of chair legs across floor tiles. He cooks all the bacon that was in the fridge.

As he's laying thick slabs of fatty pink into the sizzling frying pan, he imagines half the world's pigs gone. And from there he wonders about other herds like Bucky's goats and wonders if they're alright and he probably startles the others with an abrupt bark of razor wire laughter because Bucky's not there to worry about his stupid goats anymore no one is as far as things that matter go a few shaggy goats in Wakanda are pretty damn low on the list of priorities but it's just the kind of thing that knocks him off balance because he's not expecting to be thinking about goats after a night spent wandering the halls like a ghost in some boy scout's campfire story since random thoughts about goats aren't supposed to punch him in the gut like they do.

Tony's on the mend. Thor's on a downhill slide. Or rather, a straight plunge off a snowy mountainside and Steve's reach doesn't reach that far because Thor's already falling and Steve can't catch him. There's no shortage of booze in the place and when Thor's sucked it dry he disappears and turns up with more and Steve joins in one night because he's tired of being a lousy ghost story. It's time to be something else. So he's a wineskin. Filled to bursting and no closer to forgetting. Natasha finds them. Her voice and snatches of phrases, about alcohol poisoning and breathe steve breathe, and Thor's still at it, draining bottle after bottle while Natasha puts Steve to bed and he blinks through his lashes at the ceiling, smooth and glossy.

Tony's on the mend. He's-

There's work. Lots of work. Keeps Steve busy. Too busy to stop Thor from tumbling out the door in search of his people, his kin, and their abundance of brew. Steve works. Organizes and assigns and gets out and about in the husked shell of the world and stands on the water tension as if he's a pond skater, though there might be a fish lurking just below the surface, open mouth set close to shuddering gills.

Tony's on the mend. Steve's been told Tony doesn't want to see him. Kind of hard when the whole place is made of glass. That must be why Tony moves out. Rips away the ivs and the monitors and takes Pepper with him.

The stranger in the bathroom mirror tells Steve's he's lost everything. But no. That's not fair. That's not fair to the half still left. (or is it left behind?) To Natasha. To Okoye. And Rhodey, Rocket, Nebula. He's not sure if Thor counts. Or Tony. Does he still have them? Where they ever even his?

There's an awful lot of holes to fill and Steve dices himself into square inch pieces and plugs up the leaks with bloody lumps.

It gets lonely. Empty. He meant empty. Words are transient and diaphanous. The compound is empty sometimes when the others are out fighting evil. The world was divided in half but not the good half or the evil half and there's still good, that's them what they try to be what they try to do what they're searching for in all this barren landscape of unacknowledged grief, and there's still evil, that's what they fight what they bleed for and sometimes not always stop.

Someone leaves the television on in their room, once regular broadcasting resumes. Sound carries and Steve's hearing is better than most and he listens to recorded noise through voice coils and magnets and wonders if those people on tv are still around or if they're dust particles long gone, reduced to names on memorial plaques and memories inside of loved ones.

He has a cup of tea with Natasha. Doesn't sit too close because the stink of his latest mission is still hugging close to the contours of his chest, his calves, the slope of his nose. She moves, doesn't spill a drop. Tucks her toes under his thigh and props her spine against the sofa armrest. Her eyes pin him over the top of her teacup and the steam curls the two-tone wisps of hair on either side of her forehead.

"I went…" Natasha clears her throat. "I went shopping today."

The tea is herbal, eases softly through Steve's esophagus when he swallows.

"Bought these sweatpants." Tilt of her knee to showcase her purchase. "And a cute sweater."

He swallows without tea. It's a bit more difficult but he gets the saliva down.

"Baby steps, yeah?" Natasha hums, wiggles her toes against his leg to remind him she's there.

Steve exhales, tries on a smile. "Baby steps."


End file.
